


Worth

by Roselightfairy



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Bathing/Washing, Battle, Blood and Injury, But Only a Little Bit - Freeform, Cuddling, Established Relationship, Gloin is a little bit unreasonable, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meeting the Parents, Mortality, What am I doing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 16:18:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13907730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy
Summary: Gimli and Legolas are in Erebor to tell his parents about their relationship.  But when Legolas is wounded in a skirmish with an orc party, breaking it to them gently is suddenly much less important.





	Worth

**Author's Note:**

> Can't stop won't stop.
> 
> (No, seriously, what am I doing?)
> 
> This is an old story, actually, entirely separate from my anxiety-verse. (Which I am still working on, I promise.) I started this several months ago, abandoned it, came across it last night in a fit of writer's block, and decided to finish it. So my characterizations are a little different - but there is still mortality-related angst and lots of hurt/comfort, because . . . apparently I can't stop.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy.

This had not been the plan.

Their arrival at Erebor was meant to be uncomfortable, certainly – with what they were here to do, how could it not?  But discomfort was all that Gimli had expected: some raised voices; some hurled insults – when you told your family you planned to wed an elf, such things were bound to occur, after all.  Not this.  Never this.

They had planned to break the news gently: to introduce themselves as friends first, and slowly work their way up to more.  So when they heard the news about the raiding party of orcs, Gimli had thought of it as an opportunity to show off his beloved to people in a way they would understand. To let him prove his worth in battle before announcing his intentions to bind himself eternally to a son of Durin.  To gain respect for Legolas and for their relationship before declaring it, that their road might be easier.

Not – this.

* * *

Gimli was fighting, giving way to the battle-lust that consumed him, taking pleasure in the powerful strokes of his axe, the cleaving of head from body, splitting of armor.  Ah, but it was good to fight among dwarves again, to hear the familiar battle-cry echoed from throats accustomed to the sounds; to know that the same joy that swept him through the fight was racing through their blood as well.

And yet – there were moments when the stroke of another’s axe was strange to him, when a foe fell beside him and he found himself looking for the telltale gleam of Anduril, Aragorn’s face simultaneously focused and wild with exhilaration.  When he found himself craning his neck for the sight of that familiar slender figure, dancing from foe to foe, when an enemy fell with an arrow in his neck and – quite contrary to his initial surge of mistrust, so long ago now – Gimli felt nothing but a swell of relief and fondness.

His axe swung in another broad arc, his body twisting to the side to bury it in an orc’s chest with the crunch of armor and bone, and it was then that he heard the scream.

_“Gimli!”_

His name – he had never heard his name cried with such pain before, such pure _fear_ , and it hit him so hard that for a moment he froze, looked down at himself half-expecting to see a blade protruding from his chest.  There was nothing, and the shock held him for a moment; still unbalanced from his turn earlier, he wavered –

And Legolas hit him hard from the side, with all his weight in a full-body tackle.  It should not have swayed him, lean as the elf was, strong as Gimli’s legs were and rooted to the ground.  But he was already unsteady in his stance, off-balance and unprepared, and with that and the unexpectedness of it the blow took Gimli clean off his feet and sent them both sprawling.

Later, he would reflect that that lack of balance was what saved both of their lives.  For even as he hit the ground, breath knocked out of him, he heard the elf suck in air above him: a shocked gasp, and then silence.  Gimli’s mail was strong but flexible, and he felt Legolas stiffen against him, then go still.

“Legolas?” He twisted on the ground, and the body on top of him rolled to the side and fell limp to the ground.  “Legolas!”  Heedless of the fighting still going on around him he sat up, frantically scanning the elf’s body.  His face was frozen in an agonized expression, lips parted in the shape of that gasp, and Gimli looked for the source of the pain – and when his free hand found the gaping wound in his side, came away drenched in too much blood, a cry of his own wrenched its way from his throat, a noise unlike any he’d ever made before, a noise he hadn’t ever thought himself capable of making, except here he was now, with his palm and fingers soaking in red, too much of it to dry and stick, with the life fleeing from Legolas’s body even as he watched –

His right hand was still on his axe; his eyes came up to land on the grinning orc whose sword was raised in the air above them, the edge wet and gleaming with Legolas’s blood – Gimli had no time to rise, but he brought his hand all the way back and channeled all his rage and fear and pain into his arm, and his axe left his hand and soared in a perfect arc to crunch straight into the orc’s chest.

Gimli did not watch him fall – he turned to Legolas in desperation, adding the newly-free hand to the wound in the side, feeling blood pulsing out of it – too fast, much too fast.  Leaning all his weight on his left hand against the wound, he reached up with his right to fumble at Legolas’s neck, pushing back his hair to feel for a pulse.  His hand left smears of Legolas’s own blood on his throat, staining the skin in a gruesome finger painting.

There – a pounding beneath the skin below his jaw.  Weak and fast, but there, and when he held his hand before the mouth, he could feel just the slightest puff of air.  He breathed.  He lived.

But for how long?

Gimli became vaguely aware that others were closing in.  He looked up long enough to see – they were friends, not foes; his kin had seen his plight and come to circle him; the orc hordes were less now, and Gimli trusted the others to drive them off – he had to, for his entire life narrowed down to the elf before him, pulled half into his lap, the gaping hole that his hands struggled to push together, the life flowing out that might as well have belonged to Gimli himself.

He needed cloth – needed a bandage, something to stop the bleeding, but he was loath to take his hands from the wound even long enough to wrestle out of his tunic – especially not with the layer of mail atop it.  It would take time that he did not have, he needed help, he needed someone else –

“Here.”  Someone was next to him now, hands were replacing his against the wound, and there was cloth against it.  He looked beside him to see Svi kneeling there.  She had shed her cloak, the mail still on beneath it, and folded it into a pad.  “I will hold this.  The others are going for help – try to rouse him, if you can.”

Gimli let her hands replace his, and crawled forward to take Legolas’s head between his hands. “Legolas?” he said.  “Legolas, wake.  Legolas!”  The eyes had fallen closed, and Gimli’s heart sank – he had complained often enough about waking in the night to find Legolas staring at him with glazed-over eyes, but for all that he knew that to have them shut was much worse.  He stroked hair back from Legolas’s forehead, pressed his thumbs to his cheeks, heedless of the smudges the sticky blood left on skin and hair.  “Legolas!”

“Gimli!”

It was not Legolas who called his name, but Jarin, who had dropped to his knees beside Svi and held a healing kit.  “Gimli, we must get him back to the halls as quickly as possible, but I must bandage him now, so that he will not lose any more blood.”

“Yes,” Gimli said numbly, but he could not move his eyes from Legolas’s face.

* * *

The journey back to the halls went by in a blur; later, Gimli could remember only flashes of what had occurred.  He remembered holding Legolas’s hand as he was carried back through the gates, into the mountain, and finally down the halls to the hospital.  He remembered the healer Naina’s chagrin when Legolas fit in their longest bed only to the knees – for some reason, the image of Legolas’s knees bent at the end of the bed, feet resting on the floor, brought him near to tears, though he did not know exactly why.

He remembered little of the procedure itself – the cleaning and stitching of the wound.  Though he thought he heard the voices, saw the sights, for some reason the only image that stood out in his mind was Legolas’s shirt, cut away from his body and lying on the floor in a crumpled pile of bloody fabric.

He knew not how long the process took.  His memory started up again afterwards, after Legolas had been bandaged but before he regained consciousness.  Naina had let Gimli at him again, finally, and he perched in the chair beside the bed, as close to the elf as he could get.  There was a sponge beside him, and a bowl of warm water, and Gimli took it up now, dabbing at the marks his own bloody hands had left on Legolas’s face.  Drops of water fell from the sponge, evidence of his shaking hands, and they glistened on the smooth skin like the tears that gathered behind Gimli’s eyes.

“What were you thinking?” he whispered, his voice trembling as badly as his hands.  The sponge nearly fell from them, but he forced himself to breathe deeply and retain his grip as he traced it gently along Legolas’s neck and jaw, where his hands had fumbled for a pulse.  He could feel it now, beating stronger beneath his fingers, and he swiped delicately at the skin even as he continued to speak.  “How dare you take that blade for me?  You will be in so much trouble when you wake” –

“Gimli?”

Gimli choked on his own gasp, practically inhaling his tongue in hurry and hope.  He turned to set the sponge hastily on the bedside table before turning anxiously back to Legolas’s face.  The eyes were fluttering open, half-focused and glazed with pain, but moving, and trying to fix on his face.  The eyebrows moved almost imperceptibly closer together, as though in confusion.  “Gimli?” he repeated.

The weight of tears pressed harder on Gimli’s eyes, the rush of relief almost enough to force them free.  “Legolas,” he breathed, nearly sobbed.  And without a care for the elf’s confusion, for the presence of the others in the room, he seized Legolas’s head with both hands and kissed the still-slack mouth: once, twice, and a third time for good measure.  Behind him, he could sense a sudden coldness as everyone else in the room went utterly still, but he paid them no mind.  All that mattered was the face between his hands, the eyes that were still alive, their light beginning to sharpen.  “Oh, Legolas.  I am so angry with you.”

“Oh?” A gleam of humor had made its way back into Legolas’s eyes, and it pierced straight through the clouds of fear and anger, a sunray straight to Gimli’s heart.  “Never let it be said . . .” He fought for breath, and Gimli tried to shush him, tried to urge him to save his strength, but he would not be stopped – “that the wrath of a dwarf is not . . . formidable.”

“You _fool_.”  The urge to weep was upon him again, fear and anger and relief pressing as a threatening flood against the backs of his eyes.  He wanted to crush Legolas to him and never let him go, squeeze him so tightly that their bodies would meld together and never separate again.  But he forced himself to remain gentle, cradling Legolas’s head in his hands like the most delicate of treasures – and it was, more precious than any gemstone, than any of the flowers or trees that Legolas loved so much – even as he berated him.  “You moronic, addle-pated, self-sacrificing” – He lost the words.  Tears pricked finally at the corners of his eyes, and in absence of words he bent forward and kissed Legolas again.

Behind him, the ice that had trapped everyone before seemed to have melted.  Motion had begun again, but it was different this time – more hesitant.  The murmurs had changed from concern to shock and suspicion.

Gimli could not have cared less.  He spared no glance for the dwarves around him, his only focus on Legolas’s face, the slight, pained smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes darted around.  “Gimli,” he said weakly, “am I then to assume that you did _not_ tell them while I was unconscious?”

“I had more important things to worry about,” Gimli replied, finally letting go of Legolas’s face and taking his hand instead.  It was shaking slightly, he noticed, but when he squeezed gently the pressure was returned.

Legolas sucked in a gasp, and all color drained from his face; Gimli looked to see that his free hand had wandered to the bandage in his side and probed it lightly.  “ _Ah!_ ” He grimaced.  “I believe I understand what you mean.”

Gimli batted his hand away.  “Fool!” he snapped again.  “If you will have no care for yourself, at least have a care for me!  Legolas, I” –

“Peace.”  The hand reached up to touch Gimli’s face.  “We will speak of it later, my friend.  For now . . .”

He trailed off, eyes darting to something behind him, and Gimli turned just in time to see the door close behind his father as he left the room – in a huff, if the slam of the door was any indication.  His mother’s hands were braced on her hips, head cocked to the side and eyebrows raised in question and daring.  Everyone else – including the healers – looked distinctly uncomfortable.

“Aye,” he acquiesced, and reluctantly let go of Legolas’s hand.  “If you all would give me a moment alone with my mother?”

With muted grumbling and shuffling, and more than a few curious, censuring, and even disgusted stares, the group of dwarves in the room made their way out into the hallway.  Geira and Naina stayed behind.  “Your pardon, Lord Gimli,” she said courteously, “but I must mix a draught for your elf – friend” – She stumbled over that word – “to take once your _conversation_ is finished.  It will dull the pain and induce sleep.”

Gimli could tell that Legolas was preparing to protest, so he shot him the most withering look he could muster.  Legolas glared back for half a second, and then gave in.  Too easily, Gimli thought, and it worried him.

When Naina had mixed her draught and exited, Gimli repositioned himself so that he was beside Legolas, both facing his mother.  He found the elf’s hand again and clasped it firmly, looking into his mother’s eyes and holding her gaze.

Legolas spoke first.  “Lady Geira,” he said, voice faint but polite.  “This was not the way I would have preferred to do this” –

“But my son is impetuous, and does not think before acting,” she finished for him.

Gimli snorted.  “I hardly think I am the one who did not think before acting this time,” he said, shooting Legolas a harsh glare.  Oh, they were still going to talk about him taking that weapon – risking his immortal life –

“We had planned to tell you soon,” Legolas ignored him, “perhaps even today, if not for the battle – but we had wished to break the news more – gently.”

“And what is this news, exactly?” Geira moved her hands from her hips to cross them over her chest, looking at Gimli now.  “What are you telling me, Gimli?”

“Legolas and I” – He glanced down at Legolas, still lying in the bed, still too pale.  This was harder than he had thought.  “We – have pledged ourselves to one another.”  Legolas smiled at those words, and that smile gave Gimli courage enough to look back at his mother, strength filling his voice.  “I love him as I have never loved another, will never love another.”

Legolas took up the thread.  “And I him, lady,” he added.  “I know what dwarves think of my people, but – there will be no other for me, as long as I live.”  The pain that phrase brought up was a familiar one, but no less potent, and Legolas squeezed his fingers as though he understood, and continued.  “We know that it will not be well-received by our people – indeed, _has_ not been – but I would ask your blessing to court your son as would a dwarf seeking his hand.”

His mother said nothing for a long time, her posture still forbidding, eyes glancing from one to the other in an expression that Gimli – for all he had known her his entire life – found impossible to read.  Her lips pursed, foot tapped, and Gimli fought the temptation to break the silence.  He had always preferred speaking to silence, action to waiting, but Legolas squeezed his hand in warning and Gimli remained silent.

“Your father will not be pleased,” Geira said finally.

“No, he will not,” said Gimli heartily.  “Think not that we were unaware of that.”  Legolas had fretted enough over what to do about Glóin; they had talked it over many times but had come up with no foolproof solution to the problem.  “But know this: Legolas asks for your blessing, and I do as well, but even should you refuse it that will not stop us.  We have already seen ourselves bound in elvish fashion” – Legolas inhaled through his teeth at that; he had not wanted to reveal it and Gimli had not initially intended to, but it seemed right – “and though we wish to wed in ways recognizable to both of our people, what has been done cannot be undone.”

She continued to look at them, for a long time, and Gimli thought the way her searching gaze rested on Legolas revealed that she knew _exactly_ what it meant to be wed in the elvish fashion.  But, Gimli thought, that particular binding had been much more significant for Legolas than for him – and he knew his mother harbored no illusions about his innocence.

“If you have made your decision, then it is made,” she said at last.  “I cannot say I am overjoyed to learn of it – or that I think aught good will come of it.  I have not high expectations for such relationships, and I cannot but think this one will end in heartbreak.”

“Oh, that it will, my lady,” spoke up Legolas from the bed, and Gimli’s fingers clenched tighter in his.  “But that heartbreak will be mine to bear, and I choose it gladly, for the joy that will be mine in exchange cannot be matched by any wonder on these shores – or beyond them.”  Gimli darted a glance at his face; he was smiling faintly, even through the pain in his eyes – pain from wounds external and internal, Gimli knew, and he knew those last three words had been meant for him alone.

His mother cocked her head in confusion, and Gimli realized that she did not understand – and anew, he had to fight a fresh wave of threatening tears.

“He is an elf, Amad,” he reminded her quietly.  “I am – not.”

And now understanding washed over her face, opening and softening it.  Her eyes widened with a new light, and her hands came down from her chest to hang at her sides, no longer defensive or threatening.

“You choose this, then?” she said, her words directed at Legolas.  “You choose to bind yourself to one whose span of years is so much shorter than your own?”

“Aye,” he said, “choose it freely and gladly.  I would rather have a week with Gimli’s love than a thousand years without.  And though the span of our years together will ever be too short” – He hesitated, and his next words were grave as Legolas rarely was, the full weight of a promise – “I give you my word that I will do all in my power to prevent them being shortened further.”

The reality of their current situation hit Gimli hard; he remembered once more _why_ Legolas was lying in a bed beside him, instead of standing tall at his side; _why_ his emotions were all so close to the surface right now, and he sucked in his breath with a hiss.  “Aye, and we will be having _words_ on that score, never doubt it,” he growled.

But it seemed that his mother had been reminded as well.  When he looked back up, her entire posture had slackened – not in defeat, exactly, but in acceptance.  Her eyes flicked down to the bandage on Legolas’s side, and a rush of air escaped her lungs in a sound like surrender.

“You have my gratitude, son of Thranduil,” she said, and she reached out to lay a hand on their joined ones, “and my blessing.”  Her eyes flickered to Gimli’s with what might have been a teasing smile.  “Though your father will still be less than pleased.”  And she bent over where Legolas lay on the bed to press a kiss to his forehead.

The release of tension was so sudden that it almost felt worse before it felt better.  Gimli _sagged_ in relief, and practically fell forward to throw himself into his mother’s arms.  “Thank you,” he mumbled into her neck, and only when her arms tightened around him did he realize he was sobbing.

She did not seem particularly surprised by this, and she rocked him gently, rubbing his back and murmuring Khuzdul endearments into his ears as he wept into her beard.  “Shh, shh,” she whispered, “hush, my love, my darling child, all will be well . . .”

The shift of fabric and a gasp of pain broke them apart, and both darted glances to an ashen Legolas, who had clearly tried to rise and found himself unable.  Gimli snorted through his tears and removed himself with some reluctance from his mother’s embrace.  “Be still,” he admonished, which must have sounded singularly unimpressive with the way his breath was hitching.

Legolas said nothing, but reached for him, and Gimli knelt willingly beside the bed and let Legolas draw him down to his level.  He clasped his hand behind Gimli’s head and pulled him close, laying Gimli’s cheek against his own and letting Gimli’s tears soak his own face.  And now he too was whispering in his own tongue, endearments that Gimli did not understand but which were nevertheless familiar to him, and his mother knelt as well, with an arm around his shoulders, and Gimli felt no shame, but wept until he had no tears left to shed.

“Thank you,” he rasped finally, wrung dry and exhausted, and he knew not to whom he spoke.  But he supposed it did not matter, for they both smiled gently upon him, touched him so lovingly that he felt he could simply slide to the floor – and that he would not have the strength, once down, to rise again.

“You are exhausted, my friend,” said Legolas gently.  “You should sleep.”

Gimli thought to argue, but had not the energy.  “Very well,” he agreed.  “But I will sleep here.”  He pushed himself to his feet – extracting himself regretfully from their arms – and reclaimed his chair, at which they both turned identical censuring glances upon him.

“Go to your bed,” Legolas ordered.  “I will be fine for a few hours.”

“No, you will not. You will try to get up before you can, and reinjure yourself” –

“Peace, Gimli,” said his mother.  “I will stay with him, and make sure he does not rise.”

It was perhaps a mark of his exhaustion that this did not even surprise him, though Legolas’s intake of breath showed that he was the only one.  He simply nodded, feeling tired and empty and pliable.  “You will tell me if” –

“You will be the first to know,” his mother promised him.

Gimli could not hold back a yawn.  “Very well,” he agreed.  “I will be back ere too long.”

“Sleep well, dearest friend,” said Legolas softly.  “All will be well when you wake.”

“I know,” Gimli replied.  He looked down at both of them and felt such love swell up within him that he knew not how to express it.  “Thank you,” he repeated, bent down to kiss his mother on the cheek and Legolas on the lips, and then turned and swayed out into the hall, in search of his bed.

* * *

Gimli slept hard and long.  He would not have been able, he knew, were he younger – but long days of walking and nights of snatching up any sleep he could get had trained him to sleep heavily and immediately, in almost any circumstance.  And he had known that Legolas would not come to harm in the few hours he slept.

When he woke, it was with crusted-over eyes and a swollen face.  Long weeping followed by long sleeping had sealed his eyelashes to his cheeks, so that he felt he had to peel them apart and scrape off the glue at the corners of his eyes.  But his head was clear, and his body refreshed, and when he rose to splash water on his face, the fresh strength seemed to surge from his limbs into his heart, and his spirit was awake and hopeful.

He had to go to the healing halls at once, of course, as soon as he was decent.  He remembered Legolas’s injury, and the pain and fear and fury was not _gone_ – but he also remembered that the elf was well, or would be, and that his mother had promised to sit with him.

After she had given them her blessing.

It was enough that a light laugh escaped him as he washed his face and redid his braids, a laugh unlike any sound that had come out of his mouth before.  It sounded almost – _elvish_.

He snorted at himself – a much more comforting sound to make – and worked a comb through his tangled hair.  Legolas was rubbing off on him.

A few minutes later, he was striding down the halls, freshly dressed and groomed, unerringly on his way to the hospital with only a brief stop to purchase some breakfast: buns and fruit, something he could eat while he walked.  He finished just at the entrance to the hospital halls, and then made his way towards the door that was his goal – where he was stopped by the sight of his father, standing forbiddingly outside the door with his feet braced apart and his arms crossed over his chest.

Gimli sighed.

“Good morning, Adad,” he said lightly, hoping he could stave off this confrontation.  “Is all well within?”

Glóin just raised an eyebrow at him.  Internally, Gimli sighed, but persisted in his pretense that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.  He cocked his head at his father, looking as innocent as possible.  “Was there something you wanted?”

Glóin rolled his eyes.  “You know very well what I want, Gimli.”  His stance was still firm in front of the door, so that Gimli had no chance of brushing past him without causing a scene.  The only thing to do was to humor him.

“No, Adad, I do not,” he said pointedly.  “For you left the room without a word yesterday, and now you refuse to tell me what it is that darkens your eyes and turns you to a shield for the door behind which my friend lies injured.”

“Your friend,” Glóin echoed, punctuated by a disbelieving snort.  “Your friend and only your friend, is it?”

Well.  If his father could be close with words, Gimli could follow suit.  “My friend before all else,” he replied, folding his own arms over his chest.

Now his father let out a groan of exasperation, throwing his hands into the air, and Gimli fought down a self-satisfied smirk.  “Have done with your evasion, Gimli!” he cried.  “You sound like an elf yourself, not like the son I left behind in Rivendell!”  His gaze was turning from frustrated to dangerously hard, and Gimli winced, realizing that he had not helped matters.  “You have changed, Gimli, and I can only think of one place whence this change may have come!”  His darkened gaze turned to the door behind which, Gimli had no doubt, Legolas could hear every word.

Still, he held onto his calm.  The door was thick enough that no one else inside would be able to hear, and he would have to trust that Legolas was yet too injured to rise on his own.  “Changed, perhaps,” he said, deliberately softening his voice, “if ‘changed’ means I have learned to grow beyond foolish prejudices to open my eyes and heart to those who have become so dear to me!”  Despite his attempts, his own voice was rising in fervor.  “If that is what ‘changed’ means, then aye, Adad, I have changed!”

“Foolish prejudices?” spluttered Glóin.  “Foolish – my prejudice comes not from long-ago feuds, but from real experience!  You know what his father – what _he_ – did to your kin.  To me!”  Suddenly his face changed, as though realizing something – holding no longer fury, but concern.  “Tell me, my son – what has he done to _you_?”

“ _Done_ to me?”  Gimli’s mouth fell open.  That was too much to bear, and when he had recovered himself he uncrossed his own arms and jabbed a finger angrily at his father’s chest.  “Nothing!” he roared.  “He has done nothing to me that I did not wish him to!”

Dead silence fell.  Suddenly conscious of how loud his voice had become, Gimli glanced around.  No one was in sight, but there were definite scuffling sounds around a few corners that showed that his words had certainly not gone unheard.  _Wonderful_.  He sighed, and brought his gaze back up to his father’s.

Glóin’s face had _crumpled_.  The sadness in his eyes was – it was akin to that he had seen in Thranduil’s, actually, when he had finally accepted Legolas’s choice.  “My son,” he whispered, tears brightening his eyes.  “My glorious son” –

And pressing his face into his hands, he hurried away as though he could look on Gimli no longer.

Gimli took a deep breath, supposing that it could have gone worse, and opened the door.

Legolas was alone and awake, still flat on his back on the bed, but Gimli could see the tension in his legs where his feet rested on the floor.  His intense eyes swung up and fixed immediately on Gimli, and his jaw tightened.

“I suppose you heard that,” Gimli said, making his way to the bed and sinking into the chair.  It was warm, as though newly vacated, and he hoped that meant that his mother had stayed by Legolas’s side until very recently.

Legolas’s mouth twisted in chagrin.  “I am sorry to be a trouble.”

“Nonsense.”  Gimli took up his hand again and kissed it, brushing his lips across each knuckle in turn.  “You spoke up for me in your father’s halls, and my turn has come.  I did not believe it would be any easier here.  Your father’s grudge is against my people – mine’s is against your family in particular.”

Legolas grimaced.  “And I understand that, Gimli, but still I cannot fully apologize for it.”  They had had this conversation before, but still Legolas looked at him with a plea in his face.  “The Shadow” –

“The Shadow was strong, you knew not whom to trust, and your father overreacted,” Gimli finished.  “I know, my love.  You have told me many times.”

Legolas blushed.  “What I mean to say is that I know not how to make amends.  I do not wish your father to think I have enspelled you, Gimli” –

“Have you not?” Gimli murmured.  He no longer wished to think of his father, or Legolas’s, or any of the other endless barriers in their way.  He moved from the chair to his knees beside the bed, leaning over.  “One glance at your eyes is as an ensnaring spell; I am hopelessly trapped, with no desire to escape.”  Legolas tried to wave him off, but Gimli stopped him with a hand to his cheek, stroking the thumb at the corner of his mouth and startling away his words of protest.  “The sound of your voice weaves enchantment around me; in speech or song, you hold me ever captive.”  He replaced fingers with lips, feeling the warmth of Legolas’s blush and knowing he would not be speaking much longer.  Slender fingers twitched up and wrapped themselves in his beard, brushing lightly at the skin beneath, and Gimli fought not to let his voice tremble.  “The warmth of your skin against mine” –

“Enough, enough,” breathed Legolas, bashfulness and desire together winning out, and the fingers in his beard tightened and tugged until Gimli’s lips were pressed so firmly against Legolas’s that he could speak no more.

They occupied themselves pleasantly in that manner for some time, and then their awkward position finally became too much. Savoring Legolas’s small noise of disappointment, Gimli pulled back to re-situate himself in the chair and moved his hands to Legolas’s hair.  “One day,” he said fondly, “you will learn to let me worship you without demur.”

“Ah, but how can I, when I am so clearly the more fortunate party?”

Ordinarily Gimli would have protested, but he had noticed something else – something that brought back the sickening drop in his stomach that their teasing had helped him forget.  “There is yet blood in your hair,” he said, slowly turning over a matted clump between his fingers.

Legolas sighed.  “Yes, and the muck and sweat of battle besides,” he complained.  “I can feel grime coating my body, and I wish they would allow me to wash it away.”

“No,” said Gimli absently, still fingering the bloody hair.  He had intended to continue, to tell Legolas he was confined to bed until the healers told him otherwise, but he lost the words.  Memory was coming alive again under his hands: strands of hair clinging to fingers soaked in blood as he pushed it frantically aside; swirls of blood painting themselves over a limp neck as he searched for the heartbeat that would tell him life had not yet fled.  Abruptly he let go Legolas’s hair and framed his face between his hands, holding on too tightly as its warmth and vitality reminded him that the elf yet lived.

The humor fell away from Legolas’s face; perceptive as ever, he clasped Gimli’s fingers and met his eyes.  “You are angry with me,” he stated.

“No,” Gimli tried to protest, but Legolas kept looking at him, his eyes so level on Gimli’s own, and he broke.  “Yes.  A bit.”  Legolas’s face and hands were steady, which meant Gimli’s were the ones trembling.  “More – frightened.”

“Because I took the weapon.”  As before, it was not a question.

“Yes.”

For all that death hovered so heavy over their relationship – the dangerous journey in which they had met, the inevitable death that would bring about their final sundering – Gimli had never thought about it so immediately before.  Their confessions had not come until after the war was over – and even during, it had not seemed possible that only one of them would fall.  And after, he had allowed himself to be content with the thought – though not at all comforting – that he would not have to be the one left living, after that final parting.

“I held you in my arms and I felt life leave you,” he murmured.  “I soaked my hands in your blood and it felt like more liquid than the whole of the sea pulling you away from me.”  He cradled Legolas’s face even more tenderly in his hands, and felt the same tears from yesterday threatening to fall.  “You are not meant to die, Legolas.  I saw it happening and I could not bear it.”

“And what do you think I saw, moments before?” Legolas countered gently.  “You were turned away; you could not see, but the angle – the blade was approaching your neck, Gimli, and would have taken your head had I not interceded.  I could not watch you die any more than you could watch me.”  His own hands were shaking now, but Gimli could not give him comfort, for there was none to be had.

“But you will,” whispered Gimli.  Legolas’s face tightened with pain, but he could not stop – he had to make him understand.  “I will die anyway, Legolas.  You cannot prevent that from happening.”

“Can’t I?” Legolas smiled now, but without humor.  “I know, Gimli.  But – it is as I told your mother yesterday.  Your span of years is already so short; I will not have it cut shorter, if I can do anything to stop it.”  Already elven-bright, his eyes gleamed with his own tears.  “Please do not ask me to promise otherwise, for that is something I cannot do.”

Gimli shook his head mutely, his throat too full to speak.  He knew this was likely a poor decision, that it would jostle Legolas and earn him much complaining from the healers – not to mention the talk if anyone saw – but he could not help it: as gently as he could, he got up from his chair and climbed into the bed beside Legolas.  Legolas winced and gasped a bit as the mattress shifted, but he held out an arm as Gimli lowered himself gently in at his uninjured side, wrapping it around Gimli’s shoulders and holding him close.

Gimli said nothing when he felt something wet trickle into his hair, just as Legolas spoke not a word about the dampness soaking into his neck.  Pressed close, Legolas was warm and alive, skin smooth against Gimli’s face.  He smelled like himself: a light scent that blended pine and water and something that Gimli could only think of as starlight – but the tang of dried blood lingered alongside it, and it turned Gimli’s stomach.

“You do need a bath,” he murmured, seeking refuge in jest.

Legolas seemed to understand.  He laughed lightly against Gimli’s hair.  “Are you volunteering yourself for the task, Master Dwarf?”

“It will be a sacrifice,” he said solemnly, “but I suppose someone must take on this burdensome responsibility.”

Legolas kissed the top of his head.  “I can think of no one better suited to the task,” he murmured, and Gimli could hear the smile though his face remained tucked against Legolas’s collarbone.

“I will get what we need,” said Gimli, making no move to extricate himself.

Legolas’s arm tightened around him.  “That would be wise.”

Before Gimli could make any serious attempt to move, Legolas stiffened against him, and a moment later, the door swung open.  Reluctantly, Gimli twisted his head away from its comfortable resting place, to face whomever might have entered.

It was Naina.  Which he supposed was a better option than his father, in any case, though his mother would probably have been the best choice.  She blinked at them, but Gimli made no move to get up.  Scrambling would not undo what she had seen, and would only jostle Legolas.  So instead he offered her a nod from the bed.  “Good day to you.”

She blinked a few more times, and then bowed.  “And to you, Gimli son of Glóin.”  Her eyes flicked from one to the other.  “How do you fare today, Master Elf?”

“Well, thank you, my lady,” said Legolas courteously.  “Though I must confess I would be better given a chance to bathe, in the hopes that the removal of filth and battle-remnants would make my presence here somewhat less offensive – if such a thing is possible.”

The last was said with the mischievous humor that Legolas tended to rely on in awkward situations, and Gimli snorted.  Naina looked at them for a moment, and evidently decided not to answer.  “Let me see your wound first,” she ordered.  “Lord Gimli, if you would.”  She gestured at him, and Gimli reluctantly peeled himself free of Legolas’s grip and stood, watching as Naina peeled back the bandaging and inspected the wound beneath.

It looked much better than it had the day before, Gimli had to admit.  It was still long and ugly red, but the line of stitches held and there was no bleeding.  Naina seemed pleased as well.  Moving quickly but gently, she sponged off the area and pulled out a small jar of salve – and then stopped.

“You wished to bathe,” she said.  “I can fetch the necessary things for a sponge bath, but you must remain lying down and let someone else wash you.”  Her eyes flicked to Gimli.  “I suppose you will take on that task, son of Glóin?”

Gimli flushed.  Beside him, it was Legolas’s turn to snort – a most undignified sound, Gimli thought.  His voice seemed to have deserted him, however, so he simply nodded.

“Very well,” she said.  “I will return shortly.”

A few minutes later, she came back into the room, but this time she was accompanied by two other dwarves, wheeling a simple wooden platform into the room – the height of a bed, clearly meant for transporting wounded, but cut longer than the ones Gimli was accustomed to seeing.  He noted their courtesy for the elf in their midst, and appreciated it.  “We will take him to the bathing chamber,” Naina said, indicating Legolas.  “You may bathe him there while I change his bedding.”

Gimli could see that Legolas was flushing.  “You need not take such pains on my behalf,” he tried protesting, moving to sit up.  “I am sure that I can rise” –

Still at his side, Gimli hurried to pin his left shoulder to the bed – unnecessarily, as it turned out, as Legolas had already gasped, the blush sucked away from his suddenly-ashen cheeks.  “ _Ai_ ,” he ground out, “perhaps not.”

“You are not to rise,” said Naina firmly, rushing over to make sure he had not torn his stitches.  “And if you try that again I will deem you too unwell to leave your bed at all.”

“I am outmaneuvered,” laughed Legolas, though his face was still tight with pain.  “Some may disagree” – he shot Gimli a small smile – “but I am not such a fool as to let stubbornness rob me of a chance to bathe.  And I thank you for your care for me.”

The dwarves wheeled the wooden platform right next to the bed.  “Lift his shoulders,” one of them directed Gimli, who complied as the other dwarf took his legs.  Moving together, they slid Legolas onto the platform – thankfully, with minimal grimacing on Legolas’s part, though Gimli could see that his jaw was clenched.  When he was shifted, Naina led the way through a series of doors and into a small bathing room with a drain in the floor.  There two buckets of water stood ready – one steaming, one cold – and beside them was laid a sponge, a dipper, and a bar of soap.

Naina waved off the other two who had come with them, and stood facing Gimli and Legolas.  “You may bathe him here,” she said, “but be very careful and touch his wound as little as possible.”  Gimli nodded, and she looked at him sternly.  “Bathing only!” she said.  “I will be nearby, and will return soon with fresh garments and bandages.  Do not let me hear anything that does not belong in a hospital bathing room!”

Both Legolas and Gimli flushed this time, and Gimli recovered himself enough to stammer some kind of assurance.  Naina seemed placated, and swept out of the room, closing the door behind her and leaving them some privacy.

They both exhaled when she had gone, Gimli looking down at Legolas regretfully.  “It is just as well, I suppose,” he said.  “I doubt you have the strength for such activities, anyway.”

“I always have the strength for you,” murmured Legolas, though his tone belied his words.  “But now I find myself yearning above all else for that water.  Will you?”

Gimli smiled.  He reached down, first, to strip Legolas completely.  His chest was bare, the shirt removed long ago to tend the awful wound, but he still wore the breeches and underclothes that he had had on since the day before.  Gimli undid the fastenings now, sliding the clothing gently down Legolas’s hips and off of his legs.  His legs were stiff under his hands, he noticed, likely from their odd positioning for so long, and once Legolas was fully naked, Gimli placed his hands on a thigh and began to knead.

A moan slipped from Legolas’s lips, padded in a heavy sigh.  “Oh,” he murmured.  “I can feel the blood returning – it prickles like needles of ice and fire.  I had not realized – ”

Gimli removed his hands and straightened up.  Legolas let out a small sound of protest until he saw Gimli moving to the buckets of water.  He knew Legolas preferred cold, but for his purposes – He dunked the sponge into the warm water, returned to Legolas, and wrung it out over his thighs.

Legolas let out a long, trembling sigh, and Gimli did it again – bringing over the bucket and the dipper and gently pouring the warm water all over Legolas’s body, watching it puddle and then expand, streaming in rivulets over his skin and onto the floor.  He saved his head for last: undoing the now-stiff braids and pulling the rest of the tangled hair from under Legolas’s back, draping it until it hung over the edge behind his head, and then pouring the dipperful of water right at his hairline.

Then he paused.  “I need to turn you over,” he said, hesitating.  “Will you be able to lie on your front, just for a few moments?”

“If you help.”  Legolas opened his eyes and smiled, reaching up.

Gimli wrapped an arm around his shoulders and another around his hips and lifted gently, turning him from his back to his stomach with extra care to the wounded right side, Legolas pushing with his legs to aid as much as he could.  Gimli tensed as he lowered him back to the pallet, but if it hurt, Legolas gave no sign.

Gimli would wash him thoroughly here first, he decided, so he would only have to turn him once more.  He poured more water over him, soaking his hair again this time from the underside, watching small pools form in the hollows of his spine and the dimples at the base of his back.  Then he picked up the soap, lathered up the sponge, and began.

Legolas let out soft sighs and hums as Gimli ran the sponge over his back and shoulders, his backside and thighs – first in long, thorough lines, then in aimless patterns that left swirled ridges of soap on the skin.  Legolas’s naked body was becoming familiar to him, but he had much yet to learn, and he paid careful attention – here, when his only goal was gentleness and relaxation, would be a good place to study.  He bathed Legolas slowly and thoroughly, making sure every inch of skin was tended to, making careful note of the places that made the elf shiver and sigh.  And then he poured more water over him, very slowly, watching as it sluiced the soap off of Legolas’s smooth skin and dripped to the ground.

Again, as gently as possible, he turned Legolas over and repeated the motions on the front, careful to avoid the wound, letting only the rinse-water touch that spot.  He returned his ministrations to the legs, massaging gently, and was rewarded by Legolas’s eyes closing in bliss, his face loose and open in a way Gimli did not see it even when he slept.  “For all your cheer, you relax so infrequently, my friend,” Gimli murmured, pressing strong thumbs into the back of a calf.

Legolas simply let out a quiet “mm” in response, and Gimli turned back to the soap to lather up his hands, pausing for a moment before plunging them into the mass of hair.  He took extra care here: wringing the soap down the full length of the strands in long, thorough strokes before bunching it back up again in a cloud of foam; scrubbing with blunt fingertips at Legolas’s scalp until the elf was practically boneless beneath him.  Finished at last, he poured the last of the warm water through the hair, rinsing all the soap away and combing it through with his fingers to remove the last of the tangles.

“Will I redo your braids?” he asked softly.

It seemed to take Legolas some time to scrape coherent thought together.  “There is little purpose in it, lying down as I must remain,” he said, “but I would turn down no chance to have your hands in my hair, my love.”

“Then you shall have them.”  Gimli felt much the same way, truth be told, and he moved to the back of Legolas’s head.  The angle was awkward, as he had no desire to kneel on the wet floor, the braids less skilled than usual, but their look was hardly the point.  When he finished, he could not hold back a regretful sigh.  “I believe I have finished now,’ he said.  “Perhaps I should call Naina to return with your clothing.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you first made use of the cold water,” Legolas confessed, his eyes flicking down and his face flushing.  Gimli followed his gaze, and laughed.

“Should I then take some for myself?” he asked, going to the bucket regardless and dipping up the cold water.  “I am not unaffected by your proximity, my friend.  Perhaps this is an exercise we should repeat some other time – when both of us are hale.”  He watched Legolas’s eyes go heavy-lidded at that suggestion, and then he poured the dipperful of water right over the offending body part, laughing as Legolas yelped.  He brought more water over for a final rinse, and indeed it had the desired effect.

When all the water was used and Legolas was as clean as could be, Gimli went to the door of the chamber and called for Naina.  She was quick – enough that Gimli knew she had been waiting nearby – but discreet, handing him a folded pile of fabric and then closing the door again politely.

Gimli returned to Legolas, sorting through the things.  There was a towel on top, and then a gown that opened at the front, allowing for easy access to the wound.  The gown had been made for a man – Gimli wondered at first, but remembered that many of the men of Dale had been sheltered here not too long before.  Finally, there was a pair of loose breeches, also surely man-sized – or elf-sized, as was the case here.

“I feel like a child,” Legolas laughed, as Gimli dried him and dressed him.  He would have to lie upon the wet pallet a bit longer, but would be back to his bed soon enough.  “Helpless under your hands – though that I am often enough.”  His eyes danced beneath Gimli’s gaze, lips parting hopefully.

Gimli felt himself flushing.  “None of that, now,” he retorted, “lest we be caught, and I forbidden from your bedside!”  But he did lean down to snap up a quick kiss from Legolas’s mouth before wheeling the pallet toward the door again.

“Gimli,” Legolas said softly as they approached, “might it be possible, before returning to my room” – He hesitated, licked his lips.  “It is only – I do not mean to insult your home, but the stone does press heavy upon me, and if I could but taste fresh air for a moment” –

“Of course.”  Gimli chastised himself internally; how could he have forgotten? Legolas was a wood-elf; for all he had admitted their majesty, he had not dwelt well for long under the stone of the Glittering Caves, and now he was locked up in a mountain and wounded to boot.  “We will allow Naina to bandage you” – Opening the door, he gave the healer a nod – “and then I shall take you outside, so that you may spend a moment with your beloved trees.”

“He may not rise,” cautioned Naina, who had taken Gimli’s place by his side and was ministering her salve and bandages with a deft touch.

“Have we not a wheelchair?” asked Gimli.  “Surely we could extend a plank for his foolishly long legs” – Legolas made a small noise of protest, but Gimli ignored it – “or make some other arrangement?”  He looked at the healer.  “He is a wood-elf, Naina.  I believe some time in the open air will in fact speed up his healing.”

“It is likely so,” put in Legolas.  “The breath of the wind and the song of trees and growing things are as balm and bandages to the wounds of an elf.”  His eyes turned wistful.  “Please, lady, if a way might be found” –

She looked down at him, and Gimli could swear he saw sympathy in her face.  “Ah,” she grumbled, “I will see what can be done.”

She was as good as her word, though she hadn’t actually given it.  A lengthened wheelchair was found and brought in, and Legolas gave a sigh of relief when Gimli settled him into it and wheeled him down the hall.

“Now I may finally see your mountain, my friend!” he said with more cheer than Gimli probably would have managed if he’d been in Legolas’s forest home with a bad enough wound in his side that he couldn’t even stand up and a father-in-law who was refusing to speak to him.  “I would wish to see the trees and hear from the wind, if only for a few moments, but then you must show me the glories of your people’s halls.”

“An impressive effort,” Gimli murmured fondly, moving a hand from the handle of the chair to brush Legolas’s head.  “And I thank you for it, but I know you have no fondness for stone halls and gems.”

“But these stone halls and gems were the cradle of your youth, and the skillful tools that crafted you into the dwarf you are today,” responded Legolas, swiftly reaching up to catch the hand still resting on his head.  “And I have great fondness for you.”

“And they call me silver-tongued.”  Gimli bent down to kiss Legolas’s hand, and then moved his own back to the chair’s handles.  “Then come, my friend.  Let me show you my home.”

* * *

Gimli was not sure whether his father was avoiding him, or vice versa.  He supposed it was simply possible that his father was avoiding _Legolas_ , and since that was where Gimli tended to be, he was avoiding Gimli by default.  Which was . . . regrettable.  He thought there must have been some better way to break the news to his father, and pondered going after him, but he was hard pressed to leave Legolas’s side for too long, for all the elf’s occasional urgings to make things right with his family.

In some ways, however, it seemed that the news could not have been better broken to the dwarves of Erebor.  Their first impression of Legolas, all things considered, had been rather good – he had proven himself well in battle with the orcs, and solidified that impression by his willingness to sacrifice his life for one of their own.  And this way, Gimli had needed to announce nothing – they had all seen clearly what lay between him and his guest, and it would be rude beyond the straightforwardness of the dwarves to interrupt him in that.

He could only wish for his father to see sense.

They met him again on the third day of Legolas’s recovery, when he could now sit on his own without too much discomfort.  He protested that he would surely be able to rise soon, but Naina cautioned him not to try yet – not too soon.

But Legolas had a restless spirit, and would not stand for being confined to a too-short bed in a hospital under stone.  And so they began taking long walks, Gimli pushing Legolas in the wheelchair through the halls of the mountain and occasionally out onto balconies in the open air.  And it was as they were leaving the room on the third day that they finally encountered him.

Nearly ran into him, in fact.  It was still difficult to maneuver the door open while pushing a chair, and so as Gimli was attempting that awkward dance – opening the door with one hand, using the other to push the chair over just enough that he could get his foot against the door – when he finally made to push Legolas out into the hall, he nearly ran down his own father.

Legolas made a noise of warning, even as Glóin exclaimed in surprise and jumped backwards, and when Gimli had finally extricated himself from behind the door, he stopped short.

“Adad,” he said, hands still on Legolas’s chair, wary.

“Gimli.”  Glóin sighed.  “I was coming to see you.”

“Shall I” – began Legolas, but Gimli clamped a hand to his shoulder.

“Rise from that chair, and I will ensure you regret it,” he said, holding Legolas down until he finally sighed and subsided.  He did not put it past Legolas to simply attempt to stand and leave, and he had no desire to find his friend in a crumpled and bleeding heap in the hall later.

Once was quite enough for that.

His hand tightened on Legolas’s shoulder, and Legolas reached up to cover it with his own, seeming to know what he was thinking.  Gimli looked over at his father – just as he had expected, Glóin’s eyes were fixed on their joined hands.  But instead of the disgust he had expected, Gimli saw a deep weariness in them, and what looked like – like resignation.

“You need not leave, Legolas, son of Thranduil,” Glóin said.  “I wished to see you as well.”  He took a deep breath.  “I wished to – to thank you.”

“Thank me?” Legolas echoed.

Glóin’s face looked pained for a moment, but then his jaw firmed and he looked ahead.  “Aye.  I did not wish to accept you, or your relationship with my son, but I have been told that in fact my son is only breathing now because of you.  And for that, I think I owe you my gratitude.”

“Oh.”  Gimli stood still behind Legolas, so could not see his face, but he could imagine the expression of shocked pleasure that was on it.  “I – you need not thank me, Master Glóin.  Gimli is my dearest friend and – and my most beloved.  There is little I would not do to ensure that he lives for as long as possible.”  Gimli tensed at that, but Legolas squeezed his hand.  They had been over it already, after all, and there was nothing here that could be changed.

“I see that.”  Glóin took a deep breath, and extended a hand.  “Still, I thank you, son of Thranduil.  And though I will never love your father or your family line, I can accept you as a worthy companion to my son.”

Legolas did not respond for a moment – but Gimli felt his shoulders tense beneath his hands, his chest arching up just a bit.  He was trying to rise, in truth this time, and he made to press Legolas back down to the chair, but Legolas moved their joined hands to the side so that Gimli’s leverage was less.  The pressure of his hand increased, and Gimli realized Legolas was using him for support to stand.

Well.  If he could not stop him, he could at least help.  He hurried around to stand at Legolas’s left side, wrapping an arm around his waist to support him.  And with minimal wincing and gasping, Legolas was finally, shakily, on his feet.

Only then did he take Glóin’s hand.

“Thank you, Master Glóin,” he breathed, his voice a little too high, and Gimli held on tighter.  “I promise I will never stop trying to be worthy of him.”

Before Gimli could protest, his father looked Legolas up and down once more and nodded again.  “That I can see as well,” he said.  “And for that reason, you have my blessing, son of Thranduil.  Legolas.”

“Thank you,” Legolas repeated; Gimli echoed.  He felt his own legs unsteady with sudden relief, and wobbled slightly as he helped lower Legolas back into the chair.

When Legolas was sitting safely again, Glóin turned to Gimli and enfolded him in his arms.  “I am sorry,” he whispered.

“Thank you,” was all Gimli could repeat.  His voice shook nearly as much as his legs, and when Legolas reached out and caught his hand, all his rapid blinking could not hold back the few tears that escaped.

This was not what he had intended to happen, no.  But in that moment, it was all right.  Everything was all right.


End file.
